


While You Were Out

by missdibley



Series: Zip [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: 1990s, Clinique, Clinique Happy, College, F/M, Strip Tease, Undressing, University, meet cute, tom hiddleston - Freeform, uni - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdibley/pseuds/missdibley
Summary: Alma is prepared to spend a quiet night in when another girl's hapless would-be suitor turns up at her door instead.





	While You Were Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this prompt on Tumblr: [Imagine Tom Hiddleston watching you undress for him.](http://missdibley.tumblr.com/post/169796206391/imagine-tom-hiddleston-watching-you-undress-for)

It was Saturday night and Alma Devoir would not be distracted from her reading. Her room was warm, and outside rain had begun to fall over Cambridge. She had a book, a glass of water, and wore her most comfortable nightgown under an old cardigan that was always slipping off her right shoulder. She would not be deterred. Not even by the knocking on her bedroom door. Not moving from her wing chair, she flipped a page and yelled “Go away!”

The knocking continued.

She yelled again. “Go away!”

The knocking instead evolved into pounding.

“Go the hell away!”

“But you promised!” A male voice yelled through the door.

“What?!”

“You promised you’d be there!” And so the knocking resumed.

Alma launched herself out of her chair, stomped across her tidy room at Newnham College, and yanked the door open. Before her stood a tall, lanky youth. Untidy curls that were as golden as her own curls were black, bright blue-green eyes that seemed ready to answer any questions her own dark, inquisitive eyes would put to them. Dressed in a baggy blue jumper and even baggier jeans with the ugliest green trainers she’d ever seen, he waved a bottle of lager in the air. Alma took a step back, planted her fists on her hips, and frowned.

“You’re not Camilla!” He said indignantly.

“I should say not,” said Alma coolly. “Camilla’s room is just next door.” Just as Tom turned to knock on the neighboring door, she shook her head. “Don’t bother. She’s not there.”

“Camilla!” The boy flung himself down in Alma’s chair, taking a swig from the bottle. “She was supposed to meet me at Cindie’s!”

“Oh?” Alma looked at him, noting that in addition to being rather handsome, he looked pathetic. Put out. Lovelorn. Sighing, she shut the door then crossed her arms over her chest. “Is that right?”

“I waited for her,” he said. “For two hours!”

“You wasted your time…” Alma wrinkled her nose. “What’s your name?”

“Tom!” He stood up and offered a large hand to shake. “Tom Hiddleston. Pembroke.”

“Well, Tom Hiddleston of Pembroke, you have wasted your time on Camilla Decker-Matthews.”

“And how do you suppose that to be?”

“Camilla went home for the weekend.” Alma smirked, walking around Tom to take her seat back. “She’s not back until Monday.”

“But it’s Friday night!”

“So it is.” Alma settled down with her book.

“We were supposed to…”

“Get arsed on alcopops at Cindie’s? Hit the Van of Life for post-disco cheesy chips? Repair to your room at Pembroke for…” Alma narrowed her eyes at him. “Snogging with the chance of some energetic dry humping?”

“How did you know?” Tom didn’t like the way her dark eyes seemed to sparkle with delight at his predicament, and he hated that she had correctly guessed the night he had dreamt up for himself and Camilla. He sputtered. “I mean… well, how did you?”

“That’s her thing.” Alma rolled her eyes. “She meets blokes during the week. Whichever ones she likes, she actually goes out with. The others she tells to meet her at Cindie’s where she inevitably fails to show up.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Cindie’s is literally crawling with girls just like her, Tom. Guys usually find somebody else to go off with after forty five minutes, and forget Camilla.”

“Not this one,” muttered Tom.

“How romantic,” drawled Alma. “Anyway, she’s not here so there’s the door.”

“Fine.” Tom huffed but made no move to leave. Instead, he flung himself upon Alma’s bed, almost spilling lager from his bottle.

“Um, that’s not the door,” Alma said.

“I can’t…” Tom shut his eyes. “I can’t go back.”

“Why not?”

“I… I may have told my friends not to wait up for me.”

“So you thought you were going to have it off with Camilla tonight?” Alma snorted. “Aren’t we confident?”

“I am not confident, I am desolate,” said Tom dramatically.

Alma sighed. “And I have reading to do, so can you be desolate somewhere else?”

Tom set his bottle down on the floor, then clasped his hands under his head. “What are you reading?”

“Well, I _was_ reading Hamlet until you showed up.”

“Hamlet?” Tom sat up. “I’ve read that.”

“Congratulations,” replied Alma, drily.

“Why are you reading it?”

“I’ve been absolutely _dying_ to go to Denmark,” Alma retorted.

Tom grinned. “Really?”

“No!”

“Oh.” Tom shrugged.

“Are you really thick, or are you just that drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” Tom insisted.

“Oh, so you’re thick then,” Alma retorted.

“I went to Eton,” Tom offered by way of reply.

“Good for you, but I’m sure that even the great Eton College has graduated a few dummies in its history.”

Tom chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

“And you,” Alma said, feeling cheeky. “The dumbest one of all.”

“Quite right, and proud of it, too.”

“Weirdo,” murmured Alma, blushing for some reason. She rubbed her cheek, as if to make the pink go away. “Be quiet. I’m going to read.”

“You have an ensuite?” Tom looked at Alma, a tentative look on his face. “May I?”

“Of course,” said Alma.

While Tom used the toilet, Alma considered her situation. Tom was far from the first boy to knock on her door looking for the erstwhile Camilla. He was the first from Pembroke, though, which explains why he turned up at all. No doubt if he had been at Trinity or one of the larger colleges, he would have heard about Camilla, found out about her reputation.

And he was the first that Alma liked, or at least did not outright hate. He was endearing and kind of pathetic and that made her laugh because he didn’t seem to care about posturing. Not like the others who would sneer at her, her with her nightgown and her glasses and her round face and chubby body. Entitled boys who ran off almost as soon as she slammed the door behind them.

Meanwhile Tom was emerging from the bath, rubbing his hands vigorously together having just washed and dried them. “It smells like a garden in there,” he said with a laugh.

“Lilac lotion, shampoo, soap,” Alma explained, grimacing slightly. “My mother’s favorite.”

“Is it yours?” Tom asked.

“No.” Alma smiled shyly. “But she sends it from home so…”

Tom sat, perched actually, on the edge of Alma’s bed. “So what do you like then?”

“Oh!” Alma popped up, scurried over to her bureau where a few bottles sat arranged on a doily made by none other than her mother. Picking up a bottle, she brought it back to show him. “Clinique Happy.”

Tom, who knew the scent as it was the favorite of his two sisters, feigned ignorance. “Oh? What’s that smell like?”

Alma peered at the bottle. “Here, you can…” She frowned. “Oh damn, it’s empty.”

“Oh,” Tom said, disappointed.

“Well, here.” Alma offered him her wrist. “There should be a little…”

Tom pressed his elegant nose to the soft flesh of the inside of her wrist. Closing his eyes, he sniffed. Once, then again. Crisp citrus and sweet flowers. He smiled, then sat up. “Sorry, can’t smell a thing.”

Alma looked at him, biting back a laugh. When he licked his lips, she shivered. “Well, maybe if I…”

Taking a step back, Alma rolled one shoulder then another as to let her cardigan slip to the floor. Tom’s eyes stayed on her face, even as she stepped back between his legs. When he sat back, planting his hands behind him for support, she grinned. _The cheek,_ she thought. Even so, she offered her neck to him. “There. Try there.”

Tom moved closer, but did not get off the bed. He sniffed, the nipped at the crook of her neck. “Sorry, Alma, still nothing.”

“Dummy. You can’t smell with your tongue,” whispered Alma. She stood back up, her cheeks flushing when she saw how dilated his pupils were.

“There are other things I can do,” Tom whispered. He shifted, his cock hardening and for once he was glad he hadn’t gotten rid of the baggy jeans his mother hated so much. “With my tongue.”

Alma was aware of hot it was in her room, despite the fact that her window was open to let in the cool air of late autumn. Her nightgown, an old thing she discovered in a charity shop at home, felt heavy and slippery instead of light and silky. Tom reached up and ran his fingers just under the thin straps at her shoulders. Leaning in, he nuzzled her skin.

“Do you… can you smell it?” Alma asked.

Tom shook his head, but did not remove his lips from her shoulder. “No.”

“Here,” whispered Alma. Reaching up, she took Tom’s hands in hers and used them to slip the straps down over her shoulders. She released his hands, watching his face and holding her breath as he removed her nightgown.

Alma gazed at him, at the way his eyes widened with the revel of every inch of bare skin. Every curve and dimple, freckles and the stray stretch mark. Alma had never done anything like this, had only read about it in romance novels that she devoured during school breaks when she was supposed to be reading, well, Hamlet.

Tom couldn’t think. He could scarcely breathe. He only knew that first he was ranting and cursing his luck at having been stood up by one girl and now he could scarcely remember what she looked like because there was another girl, Alma, who smiled at him and wasn’t put off by his grubby clothes and his uncool trainers and the “with my tongue” line he’d stolen from a soft core porno he saw one night on telly when he was supposed to be reading, well, Hamlet.

But back to her body. Round shoulders, soft breasts with dark peaked nipples just within reach of his lips. Soft tummy and round hips and blue cotton knickers, heavy thighs that touched and he wanted to slip his hand between them just to warm it.

Tom closed his eyes, and pressed his nose to the well of her stomach. “There,” he murmured.

“What?” Alma asked. She gently tousled his curly hair, pleased at how soft it felt.

“Grapefruit,” he said. He pursed his lips and kissed that spot. “Flowers.”

“That’s it,” Alma whispered. “Happy.”

“Yes,” Tom sighed. He smiled when he heard the click, felt Alma reaching around him to turn off her bedside lamp. “Happy, indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a couple more drabbles planned for other Toms. I hope to post them in the coming weeks.


End file.
